From Piping Today Mag – Dunaber Musichttp://www.dunaber.com
by Michael Grey ...Thu, 10 Aug 2017 08:17:11 +0000en-CAhourly1http://www.dunaber.com/wp-content/files/2016/12/cropped-dunaber-piper-32x32.jpgFrom Piping Today Mag – Dunaber Musichttp://www.dunaber.com
3232A stomach full of hyper-caffeinated butterflieshttp://www.dunaber.com/2017/08/10/performance-anxiety/
http://www.dunaber.com/2017/08/10/performance-anxiety/#respondThu, 10 Aug 2017 08:14:46 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3763Every June in the town where I live there’s staged something called Buskerfest. It’s pretty much what you’d expect: a festival of street performers. The whole of the main drag in town is taken over by a good cross-section of the busking world – and, yes – it seems there is a “busking world”, with […]

]]>Every June in the town where I live there’s staged something called Buskerfest. It’s pretty much what you’d expect: a festival of street performers. The whole of the main drag in town is taken over by a good cross-section of the busking world – and, yes – it seems there is a “busking world”, with events like the one in my town happening all over the world almost every day. The hardcore of the talent seemingly travel the world’s circuit of busker gatherings (sound familiar?) swallowing their knives and blowing fire out their bahookies at the drop of a hat. Almost literally.
The life of an itinerant busker has to be riskier than most (there, again, goes my remarkable and penetrating insight). The busker relies on the good graces of his somewhat random audience to cough up the coin and, if lucky, a dose of clattering appreciation. The busker absolutely must amuse, entertain and impress to have any hope of rent money. Often novelty isn’t enough (see said bahookie man) – the audience has to like the show a lot. It seems to me the appreciation of any good busker show is based, at it’s core, on excellence: A little savvy mixed with a lot of wondrous skill.

It wasn’t the meticulous sword swallower that caught my attention this time (their kind are so yesterday, don’t you know). No, it was the classic – iconic even – ball-in-the-air, gravity-defying juggler. If you’ve ever given juggling a shot – even three balls at time – you’ll know, the whole effort is a tricky game. On this day the juggler had six balls going, at least, and kept them flying for an impressively long time all while joking with the crowd. A great display of mental strength and physical agility – and showmanship. Where are the nerves? A juggler’s shaky day at work makes for dropped balls, unamused crowd and another week of groceries bought from Poundstretcher. With so much at stake it seems a remarkable thing that street performers, jugglers especially, aren’t angst-ridden basket cases.

Performance anxiety is something relatable to almost anyone (it’s to be seen if busker jugglers can be included here). In fact, it’s generally believed to be one of the most common of human phobias. Anyone who has had cause to be responsible for making something happen in front of a group of people, large or small, will likely have tasted from the sweaty, palpitating cup of stage fright. We surely know this in piping. Both bands and individual appearances – in and outside of competition – have been known to makes a shambles of planned performance steadiness.

An expert in the field, Dr David Carbonell, says performance anxiety is what happens when you focus on yourself and your anxiety, rather than your performance. This, he says, comes from a tendency to resist and fight your anxiety, rather than to accept and work with it. All of this is the result of thinking of the performance situation as a threat instead of a challenge. And busker-juggler types must revel in this challenge in a big way.

I understand explicitly Carbonell’s belief that a person can get so involved in their internal struggle to keep a performance on track that there’s never any involvement in the actual performance. I imagine the majority of competing pipers can, too. Instead of focusing on the tune, the music, the sound any artful effort can be wrecked by dwelling on the performance anxiety – and trying to get rid of it, to suppress it, to deny it. And all that just makes things worse. Cue performance train wreck.

]]>http://www.dunaber.com/2017/08/10/performance-anxiety/feed/0The collateral damage of nicehttp://www.dunaber.com/2017/06/16/the-collateral-damage-of-nice/
Fri, 16 Jun 2017 11:13:28 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3724To be clear and direct in communicating – getting across what you really feel to your fellow person – must surely be one of the rarest of human traits. In my experience, it’s the norm for people to often do whatever can be done to avoid saying what might be said in the most concise […]

]]>To be clear and direct in communicating – getting across what you really feel to your fellow person – must surely be one of the rarest of human traits. In my experience, it’s the norm for people to often do whatever can be done to avoid saying what might be said in the most concise and unvarnished of ways. In our use of words, in our lexicon, we’ve even invented a special category for words that are indistinct, words that soften the impact of a purer, more literal alternative. We have the euphemism.

Death and dying are taboo discussion subjects in much of the world. Rather than to die or to have died you’ll know it’s much better to have “passed away”. To have passed away must be among one of our most common euphemisms. Like quietly leaving a big party, easing away from a large dinner table or fading from sight at the end of a long road, people just “pass away”. So much nicer to think of death that way, isn’t it?
Of course, euphemisms can be crass and colourful as much as they can be gentle and soft: to kick the bucket, flatline, croak and push up daisies all fall into the category of words and phrases to use when you don’t want to say the D word.

Among many other things, Winston Churchill was a master of the English language. In 1906, in responding to a question in Parliament regarding government treatment of unskilled Chinese labourers, he said: “Perhaps we have been guilty of some terminological inexactitudes.” Terminological inexactitudes: a lot of syllables and letters to say the crisp and explicit mono- syllabic “lie”. Of course, the word lie is considered unparliamentary language and so Churchill looked to the cloying and – this time – clunky euphemism.

Sometimes called doublespeak or double-talk, the euphemism is usually about substituting words that might be blunt, or even offensive, with something milder and more indirect – vague even. Readers of George Orwell’s 1984 will be familiar with his inventions of “doublethink” and “newspeak”. There is danger in euphemisms because while the words may seem sweet, true and clear, meaning is camouflaged. Something bad can seem good. The intolerable can seem bearable.

When bombs are dropped on wartime targets bad guys can be “eliminated” – killed. At the same time, there can be “collateral damage”: civilians can be blown into a thousand bloody pieces. I can’t recall ever having heard a newsreader say anything close to “a thousand bloody pieces” in the context of a bomb exploding. “Collateral damage” is so much less, well, bloody.

And so to piping. Collateral damage in the context of pipe bands might be an acre of litter and detritus after a Worlds contest: a sodden sea of empty pint cups. We’re not without our doublespeak. We certainly have euphemisms aplenty.

]]>Damn you short attention spanshttp://www.dunaber.com/2017/04/03/savour-the-moment/
Mon, 03 Apr 2017 12:48:59 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3686“It was the moon on nights like this, it was nights like this, it was the wind as it pawed at you or cried as it approached, the sound of the river, the clotted stars against the dark sky, the way a horse will snort at the sight of you, the way pine needles seemed […]

]]>“It was the moon on nights like this, it was nights like this, it was the wind as it pawed at you or cried as it approached, the sound of the river, the clotted stars against the dark sky, the way a horse will snort at the sight of you, the way pine needles seemed to rust as they died. It was too much to be named. It was all that could not be taken away until it was taken away at last. It was given before you knew what to make of it and taken before you’d had a chance to understand its extent and beauty.”

These words by writer André Alexis come from a short story of his – “On Such a Night” – published last week in Canada’s Globe & Mail. These beautiful words especially resonate; they passed through my screen only a couple of days after the passing of my old friend and mentor, Reay Mackay. The last line, in particular, stays with me and has caused me to reflect. Unless you’re a Buddhist monk or of that rare ilk – of the deeply thoughtful and self-aware – the norm, surely, is for us to not savour and appreciate the present.
Damn you short attention spans, petty distractions and worries of the future. Mark Twain comes to mind: “I have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened”. It’s the here and now we so often let pass like something without value or of little consequence – or ordinary. Ordinary suggests humdrum and that without distinction. Where’s the joy in that? When we reflect on ordinary we can find it is not always as it first seems.

I say we but mean me. I don’t want to make any assumptions about your own perspective and way of being, so my apologies now for presuming to use the plural personal pronoun.

When Reay died I found myself going through old photos. Old-school photos, the kind printed on paper, the kind you can hold without phone in hand and those most often pressed in pages held together by binding. Can you still buy photo albums? I know I have a good few and among them all are scant images of Reay – and me and Reay. I was surprised and then started flipping through the album’s pages looking for pics of teachers and other heroes of my past and present. There is no shortage of homogenous party scenes and failed attempts at replicating scenic photographic greats like an Ansel Adams (with my point-and-click camera). My cello-paged albums hold very few of time spent with John Wilson, George Walker, John MacLellan, John Walsh or even, Bill Livingstone – a person I see and talk to a lot to this day. And certainly not many of Reay.

I reflect on what this might mean, to have photos (together forming a very personal book of record, really) that suggests value is placed on a boozy party selfie over, say, documenting time spent in an important way – time spent with a teacher, or other personally impactful people.

]]>Humblebragging, narcissism, neediness and sanctimonyhttp://www.dunaber.com/2017/01/27/humblebragging-narcissism-neediness-sanctimony/
Fri, 27 Jan 2017 16:04:41 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3616ANYONE that uses Facebook will know that from time to time there are interesting bits of information that break through the often unfiltered cringe-making that is the backbone of social media. And so it was last week, smashing through a sea of humblebragging, narcissism, neediness and sanctimony (and pictures of food) – some likely of […]

]]>ANYONE that uses Facebook will know that from time to time there are interesting bits of information that break through the often unfiltered cringe-making that is the backbone of social media. And so it was last week, smashing through a sea of humblebragging, narcissism, neediness and sanctimony (and pictures of food) – some likely of my own making – came Helen Keller. Her name is one from days gone by but like most great examples of humanity, Keller’s, I think, is one still generally known.
Helen Keller (1880-1968) was an exceptional person in almost every way. She lost her sight and hearing before the age of two. But with the help of family, good people and skilled clinicians she would live a long life as not just an educator but one of the last century’s leading humanitarians. In fact, she was co-founder of the American Civil Liberties Union. It was on Facebook where I happened on a short (and rare) video film clip from the 1930s of Keller with her famous teacher, Anne Sullivan demonstrating how Keller learned to understand words, and how she came to find a way to express herself. I was fascinated. The footage got me to thinking of ability, talent and that near age-old argument: nurture versus nature; that is, are our individual behavioural qualities driven by our genes alone or do our personal experiences dictate who and what we are?
Science has studied the idea for almost for- ever; and by that, I mean an awfully long time. The pendulum of thought seems to swing from a place where its thought we’re all set for nurturing, born as “blank slates” (see: philosopher John Locke) – where we are all equally ready to be influenced by experience – to the notion of “nature”. The controversial scientist, Francis Galton (1822-1911), conducted research that led him to conclude that heredity or nature made more of a difference than environment – or nurture. Galton believed you were born with intelligence, outside influence made no difference. Intelligence could just not be trained. It was Galton who is credited with coining the phrase “nurture versus nature”.

]]>The Best I Ever Playedhttp://www.dunaber.com/2016/11/15/the-best-i-ever-played/
Tue, 15 Nov 2016 12:43:20 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3514When I first starting competing in Scotland and going around the competitions, there was no shortage of fun to go along with the games. Like today, only it seems to me that then there were more eccentric, larger-than-life types around the whole of the scene. It may have been my youthful, wide-eyed interpretation of what […]

]]>When I first starting competing in Scotland and going around the competitions, there was no shortage of fun to go along with the games. Like today, only it seems to me that then there were more eccentric, larger-than-life types around the whole of the scene. It may have been my youthful, wide-eyed interpretation of what I experienced that makes me think this. But then, on reflection, I don’t think so.
I think my mum, and people of her generation especially, would call these folks, “characters”. “He’s a real character,” said of the man who’d stand out from the crowd with an eccentric way with words, or unique ability to hold a group enthralled. Or maybe just simply make you look — or think — twice. To be a character is different from having good or bad character traits. A “character” is the sum total of all his character traits — the good, bad and, yes, the ugly. You knew that was coming. Still to be anointed “a character” is a good thing: people remember you and you’re usually a person who brings something interesting to a social scene or situation. And finally, people who are the real “characters” that pepper our world rarely know they’ve made that mark. Blissfully unaware.

One of the characters of my early piping career was a Glaswegian. A piper. And to be fair, a lot of the characters of my memory of those days — and these days, for that matter — are pipers from Glasgow. The man in question: not all that tall, a solid if not compact frame and a good, well-fed rectangular-shaped face that affirmed his good island stock. He seemed always positive — happy even — as he made his way on the boards in his trademark short-cut tweed jacket and stylish Balmoral bonnet. And as you might expect, he was well-liked by his fellow competing pipers.
When faced with the — from time immemorial — post-solo contest piper’s salutation, “how’d you get on?”, he would reply the same way. Every. Single. Time. He’d say: “The best I’ve ever played in my life.” And that was that. No false modesty. No pretence. Just a frank statement of fact as he saw it; he had played the best ever. Tempo could be out the window, pipes discordant, technical misses aplenty. It never mattered, his tunes were his best. And his best tunes, for the record, were known to be very good indeed.

Of course. We would laugh, and not always with him. People being people, so often on the wrong side of compassion. But, still, no one thought too much about it. He was a real character. In reading a recent online report of a piping event I was struck — again — at how brutally and unhelpfully critical we can be in publicly assessing each other’s performances. Comments like: “We don’t know where he gets his tuition but he’ll never get a prize playing that way”, or “the band’s medley construction is simply poor”
are not uncommon.

I suppose there is a place for literary criticism, a gracious acknowledgement, I know, or music and art criticism, in general. Critical assessments might bring broader understanding to words, sounds or images. And pipers are drawn to these critical assessments like nothing else.

]]>A Jig is a Jighttp://www.dunaber.com/2016/09/09/a-jig-is-a-jig/
Fri, 09 Sep 2016 23:01:16 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3467THERE was a time when I thought that one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life was to play Peter MacLeod’s tune Donald MacLean, twice through in the jig final at the Northern Meeting. John Burgess, ever the man, he middle of the bench at the Eden Court theatre (rightly so) and […]

]]>THERE was a time when I thought that one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life was to play Peter MacLeod’s tune Donald MacLean, twice through in the jig final at the Northern Meeting.John Burgess, ever the man, he middle of the bench at the Eden Court theatre (rightly so) and managing his cigarette like a fine theatrical prop: smoke rising, languid swirls clouding the bench in the coolest way; Burgess, wrist at just the right cant and fag angled in just the right way, well, JDB effectively imbued that bench of three with the gravitas I’d imagine was in line with any — Pearly Gates included. And me, sweating and E-striking away.

Thinking back now, I have to laugh. At the very least, smile. The piping world misses JDB and the coterie of many characters of his generation. And by the way, on this particular late Thursday afternoon in early September, I was to play, on the repeat, the third part of the tune, three times. I glanced to the bench, knowing I’d blown it — an amateur thing to do, to give yourself away in a glance — and there was JDB, smiling and shaking his head. I finished my nine unplanned parts — and exited stage right.

Of course, a jig is a jig. A dance tune passed our way courtesy of that seriously musical and enigmatic emerald green place southwest of the Hebrides. Four parts will give you 60 seconds of rhythmic and technical intensity. Highland pipers, by hook or by crook, have managed to squeeze out the fun factor by usually adding a “twice through” in its performance. And Highland dancers shake their fists.

Anyway, my Eden Court thwacking is, of course, far and away not the “hardest thing” I’ve ever done. I’m happy to say that there is nothing in piping that comes close.
I’ve lived long enough to have attended more funerals than I’d like (and undertakers aside, who likes funerals?) support acquaintances, friends and family move through tricky health or life challenges — pardon the, admittedly, politically correct vernacular — and, well, just lived a life, one where bagpipe stuff is never the “most challenging”.

My God, it surely can feel like that, challenging, from time to time — let’s keep it real — but, no, a life lived usually tempers all that. Bagpipe stuff, as I’ll call it, is just that: stuff —things that happen related to the instrument you happen to play and, sometimes, the band where you choose to make the whole thing happen. All this, I know, is no different from you. We’re all the same.

]]>Our Aunt Ethelhttp://www.dunaber.com/2016/07/17/our-aunt-ethel/
Sun, 17 Jul 2016 19:46:01 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3450IT’S estimated there are over seven billion people inhabiting our dear blue place — planet earth. That’s a seven and nine absolute zeros. To me, an unimaginable number of anything, let alone a measure of human souls. And yet, time and again, in the face of big numbers, we encounter a small world. “It’s a […]

]]>IT’S estimated there are over seven billion people inhabiting our dear blue place — planet earth. That’s a seven and nine absolute zeros. To me, an unimaginable number of anything, let alone a measure of human souls. And yet, time and again, in the face of big numbers, we encounter a small world.

“It’s a small world — though I wouldn’t want to paint it,” said comedian Steven Wright. And there’s nothing like a looming, inestimable paint job to put something in perspective. Sure, we know the world is massive. I think it’s knowing this that has us easily imagining cosy comfort when some serendipitous happening meets our day. Like finding your neighbour is sister to your high school English teacher’s mum. “It’s surely a small world.” “Awww, we’re all connected,” you might groan. Or not.
Last week I received an unexpected note from a guy who claimed we were cousins. My dad’s Aunt Ethel turned out to be cuz’s great- grandmother. Forget that no one calls their kids Ethel anymore — why, I can’t imagine — but the interesting thing was my new-found cousin lives only blocks from where I work. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that we’ve rode the same subway car at the same time, stood in the same fast food queue or (judiciously) downed a pint in the same pub, again, at the same time. It’s surely a small world.

In fact, according to internet pioneer, Brad Templeton, we are all — at least — 16th cousins, meaning 17 generations ago, you — and me — shared the same couple, the same ma and pa. “…it is 99.9999% likely from these numbers [his calculations] that any given person is at least a 16th cousin. And 97.2% likely that they are a 15th cousin — but only 1.4% likely that they are an 11th cousin …”, wrote Templeton. Let’s hold off on the hole-picking for a minute and carry on (i.e. “what about sub-Saharan residents and my ginger rellies from Derryhaw?”)

]]>Piping Today: You’re the reason our kids are uglyhttp://www.dunaber.com/2016/05/03/piping-today-youre-the-reason-our-kids-are-ugly/
Tue, 03 May 2016 14:33:13 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3366Pipers have an interesting tradition of titling the music we create. Generally speaking, names of tunes are all nouny all the time: persons, places and things make up a massive swathe of our named repertoire. In line with our predisposition when performing to keep Jaggery struts and Jacksonesque moonwalks – and displays of emotion – on the down low, we don’t seem to show much effusiveness in our naming convention.

]]>The highland bagpipe can create some of the most rhythmically amazing music imaginable. A well-practised set of mitts can rattle off near endless streams of reels, jigs, strathspeys and hornpipes.

Highland dancers would be lost if not struck dead still without a piper’s tunes. The undulating groove inherent in any good-going reel has the power to move even the most rigid and uncompromising of feet. Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals, wrote French poet, Charles Baudelaire. And on that, like drum and stick, wind and waves, bed and breakfast, music and dance are inextricably linked.
And yet, when we think of the piper, the creator of these mellifluous dance-inciting rhythmic explosions, we seldom think of dance, or movement of any kind, for that matter. The rare example of World Champion Highland dancer-cum-nifty-fingered piper, David Wilton aside, pipers are a pretty “physically serene” lot.

In fact, things don’t always go all that well for the competitive piper who opts to play and “move”, you know, groove to one’s own stylings. To show a physical acknowledgement of those self-made rhythmic explosions: not good. Should a piper regularly bob a little to his strathspey, a nickname like, say, “Bobby” will invariably follow. A habit of nodding at phrase endings? Yep. You’re Noddy. Performing pipers may quietly tap their foot – but that’s it.
I recall John Wilson (Toronto/Edinburgh) talking of Angus MacPherson’s son, the great player, Malcolm R MacPherson. “When he marched he looked like a monkey and so he was known as the monkey piper.” Nice crowd. I don’t know if there was more to it than just his marching technique but it’s still true today that a steady bearing and cool physical demeanour are markers of most accomplished pipers.

And this truth got me to thinking about tune titles. Pipers have an interesting tradition of titling the music we create. Generally speaking, names of tunes are all nouny all the time: persons, places and things make up a massive swathe of our named repertoire. In line with our predisposition when performing to keep Jaggery struts and Jacksonesque moonwalks – and displays of emotion – on the down low, we don’t seem to show much effusiveness in our naming convention. Jim Mackay’s Welcome to His Mother’s Farewell to His Chanter might sit as an example of a tune title (at the moment without tune) that covers off a few elements of pipe tune naming convention. In this example the highly commemorative and proper noun naming element is covered off. People and events – especially comings and goings – are historically the go-to subjects when anointing a pipe tune. No news there.

]]>Piping Today: A magical winter week in Glasgowhttp://www.dunaber.com/2016/02/24/piping-today-a-magical-winter-week-in-glasgow/
Wed, 24 Feb 2016 22:03:11 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3337First, it’s worth saying that shared energy is a natural outcome of group music-making — no matter the group, no matter the level of musical proficiency. We make this energy any time we gather for a band practice or even play along with our teacher or another piper on the practice chanter. There’s a connectedness and usually a level of concentration that sees shared music-making shield thoughts of the outside world, and if the stars align, makes us feel really good.

]]>I once read something somewhere about the spiritual power of making music in a group. The words I recall spoke to group music creation in a sacred sort of way. Making music with others joined energy and life forces and, well, made magic. Magic a word used here, I think, to describe the indescribable. And the indescribable, to me, usually stands as the best and worst things in life and, from time immemorial, inspirational fodder for the poet. Anyway, these hazy recollections stayed with me and it was only in the last week of January did they again burble up.
The LiveinIreland87 tribute project — that which you’ll know I was very involved in and that which you are probably getting pretty tired of hearing about — turned out to be a veritable living lab, one that explored in blazing Technicolor the serious magic connected with making music in a group; in this case, of course, a group of pipers and drummers.
First, it’s worth saying that shared energy is a natural outcome of group music-making — no matter the group, no matter the level of musical proficiency. We make this energy any time we gather for a band practice or even play along with our teacher or another piper on the practice chanter. There’s a connectedness and usually a level of concentration that sees shared music-making shield thoughts of the outside world, and if the stars align, makes us feel really good.

]]>The Gift that Keeps on Givinghttp://www.dunaber.com/2015/12/22/the-gift-that-keeps-on-giving/
Tue, 22 Dec 2015 13:01:15 +0000http://www.dunaber.com/?p=3285But it is music that seems to overtake every known antidote to aging when it comes to both medicine and New Age quackery. Music, after silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible (Aldous Huxley) and music, the shorthand of emotion (Leo Tolstoy). Forget the glass of wine. Wait. That’s crazy talk, rather, forget those kale smoothies and Italian 101 night courses, take in music. Learn an instrument, memorise a tune, practice — play your heart out. That’s the golden age ticket.

]]>These days we hear more and more about “ground-breaking” studies trumpeting the health benefits of one thing or another. News in tandem equally pronounces the many things that are seemingly bad for us. One day it’s a daily glass or two of wine that will add years to a body, the next your favourite Vino Collapso is marked as toxic organ-hardening poison. It’s all, in part, I’d wager, thanks to the wave of ageing “baby boomers” washing over the Western world. Perhaps more than others before it, the post-war generation wants to live forever — or, at the very least, not get old. There’s a trick.
Surely one of the great human paradoxes is our general aspiration to live a long life without that unappealing “old age thing” getting in the way.

As we all know, the steady, sure hand of age touches both body and mind. And the business of keeping people with sound mind is a huge one: online “brain training”, games, mental challenges and exercises are everywhere. This week came another study extolling the benefits of bilingualism. Studies have shown time and again that compared to those who can only speak their native tongue, a second language significantly delays the onset of many brain related ailments such as Alzheimer’s and dementia. C’est bon à savoir.

But it is music that seems to overtake every known antidote to aging when it comes to both medicine and New Age quackery. Music, after silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible (Aldous Huxley) and music, the shorthand of emotion (Leo Tolstoy). Forget the glass of wine. Wait. That’s crazy talk, rather, forget those kale smoothies and Italian 101 night courses, take in music. Learn an instrument, memorise a tune, practice — play your heart out. That’s the golden age ticket.
It’s been known for well over a century that musicians’ brains are different. For instance, German surgeon, Sigmund Auerbach, found in his 1911 study that the brains of musicians showed elements of physical variants when compared tonon-musicians (we’d all like to think bigger here — but I don’t know). Recent research (Chinese University of Hong Kong) using Magnetic Resonance Imaging and Positron Emission Tomography technology found physical connections to known cognitive benefits of music — especially in the playing of a musical instrument.

Playing an instrument was described as “a full brain workout”. Cognitive benefits of playing an instrument were found to be many: overall memory improvement with specific improvement of verbal memory and overall memory retrieval. The study found that children with as little as one year of musical training were able to remember 20% more words in their vocabulary. And for any piper with a little time for an intro to Italian course, research found musicians who learned their instrument young could learn new languages more quickly. Molto bene!

It’s clear music is the gift that just keeps giving. Thank you smart science people for the confirmation.

Which brings me to the superior musicians’ brain. So glad to think I have one. And if you’re reading this, you likely occupy the same neurofantastic world as me. What are we like! But. And there’s always one of those, isn’t there? A “but” to rain on the parade. A “but” to suck the good out of any time. I have this nagging doubt.

If my brain is “neurofantastic”, why do I sometimes get nervous when I make music? Why is it thoughts of apprehension and self-questioning occasionally and uncontrollably land in the middle of a good-going tune? Why do great musicians do stupid things? Like Pete Townshend and Kurt Kobain (when he was alive) who would regularly destroy their guitars on stage? In fact, why do I have nagging doubt? Why?